


In the Night

by whiskey_tango_foxtrot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Stockholm Greyjoy working here! Nothing graphic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_tango_foxtrot/pseuds/whiskey_tango_foxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon's got a bad case of the Stockholm working. Ramsay's got a bad case of the dark magic-stalks working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Night

Theon's got a bad case of the Stockholm working. Ramsay's got a bad case of the dark magic-stalks working.

*

Theon could not shake Jeyne's eyes or her pleading or her fear from his mind. Probably because the same fear and pleading and sick terror _he'll find me, he'll take me back, he'll hunt me like a dog, I won't even be worth naming another,_ it was his fear too.

Nights were the worst, although the days weren't much better. Stannis had little patience for him, and little more for the Stark imposter. He hadn't come straight out with it, but the first thing he'd declared when he saw her was, "I see little of Catelyn Tully in you, and even less of your father."

He had called her a coward in different words, and his cold eyes held a glimmer of suspicion in them. But he didn't know, he could _never_ know how little Ramsay Bolton could leave in a person before he was done. Even the real Arya Stark could never have held up to his ministrations, or held onto herself under the onslaught of his attention. Jeyne still had ten fingers, she still had all her skin, and yet she had little else but tears and trembles left in her.

He sympathized, but all the same, no one had come for him. No one had ferried the son of Balon Greyjoy from Ramsay in the night, and gods help him, he'd prayed for it. If he could have found a candle, he would have lit one to The Stranger to visit Ramsay in his chambers - and yet even if he had a candle, he hadn't the courage to light it.

*

Stannis glared at him from beneath his awkward crown. If ever a man had desired less to be a king, Theon had never met him.

He had been freed of his chains finally; the healers and red priests who had attended him appealed to Stannis to let him walk free. He was barely able to wield a sword, and they worried he was more like to turn it on himself than another. And the snow was too high for him to escape successfully - where would he go, besides?

"Back to the Bastard, I expect," Stannis rumbled, clearly displeased at his own mercy. "To tell him of our position, of our numbers, of our morale. One of these, and his father's host could smash us on the morrow with a fraction of our men."

"They aren't all northmen, my lord," Theon sighed.

"Nor are you," was the cross reply.

"Lord Ramsay is surrounded by false Freys and Manderleys, and they are too near at each other's throats. LIttle but their words bind them to Roose Bolton, and they will turn on each other at the first ill wind. They do not know northern winters - true northmen hear stories of long winters and eternal nights from the time they were babes. These men know only autumn's chill. They have not seen a snow until this season."

"Perhaps you feed me lies," Stannis suggested. "Perhaps I give you back to Bolton's bastard at sunrise - he seems more keen to recover you than his own bride."

His chest tightened. "N- _no_ , my lord - you cannot - you _must not_ -" Stannis unrolled the parchament clutched in his hand. "He demands you alive. He says that if you are not returned, he will line the Kingsroad with my men's heads and his next summons will be written on their skins."

A treacherous breath swept out of his lungs. "I would rather you put my own head on a spike next to theirs. He already has - he has my skin," he stammered, "and my fingers - he already has all of me, everything I can give and more to take - "

"Your life?" Stannis demanded.

"He will not take that, sire, not yet," it all came in a rush, his missing fingers curling and flexing and tingling. "If you wish to punish me for my sins, for the lives I took -"

"The Stark boys, to secure the north," he murmured ominously.

"Then do it yourself, but no justice will be served by Lord Ramsay," he fumbled.

"I expect he exacted that already," was the assent.

"No, sire," he whispered. "He has no mind for justice. He cares not for right, or revenge, or for punishment. He just... wants. And what he wants, he will take without thought for king or kingdom - he holds no love or hate for Lannister or Stark or Baratheon, he will do as he wants with his toys no matter who takes the Throne, he will do it until he is stopped -"

"And so why does he demand you before his Stark bride?" Stannis asked darkly.

"Because I'm his Reek, sire," he choked, shaking. "It rhymes with weak."

Stannis's disgust was ill-masked. "Take him," he ordered. "He is not to wear irons. He has nowhere to flee. Let his sister attend him, but keep him guarded at all times. If he makes to escape, cut his head off and send it to Lord Snow."

 _Ramsay_ , he almost argued, _his name is Ramsay, never call him Snow_ , but he let it die on his tongue. Until Stannis himself was flayed of his skin and of himself, there was no point in emphasizing one's true self. He had never been stripped of his an inch at a time.

*

In his dreams, Theon was whole. Sometimes he dreamed of his home - both of them, as a ward of Ned Stark playing with Robb and picking on Jon, and as an ironborn of Pyke.

He remembered less of the latter, but as a child he'd imagined what it would have been like to grow strong under his father, drowned for the God by his uncle, raised as the true lord of the ironborn. In truth, he knew what he wanted now: he wanted to go back to Pyke and let his uncle drown him until the God either saw fit to revive him and let him serve, or let him be drowned forever. He had never been pious, but there was a strange comfort in the salt and the wind and the storms of the God. If he was spared, he thought he could someday be as true and serving of the Drowned God as his uncle Aeron, although Asha made him sound half-mad in her silences. Her love was unquestionable, but awash in respect for something she did not understand. The truth was, the God would probably drown him forever, and that was fine. And if he ever did see the Iron Islands again, Euron would probably drown him personally first, which was also fine.

"Why do you think," came the soft voice, "that I would ever allow another to lay a hand on you?" And then Theon decided he must have died and died and died again, because _no he can't_ -

He swallowed, looked down at his hands, at his ten fingers. He was dreaming. He was safe within Nagga's Bones, and the God's breath whipped hard and cold around him.

And yet Ramsay stood ten feet away, smiling faintly and admiring his surroundings. Winter had hollowed his cheeks, left his furs loose on his frame, but taken none of his potency from him. His eyes burned cold, chipped from the sea itself.

"I will never let another soul bring you to harm," he continued, strolling forward, his mere presence a blasphemy in this sacred place. "Not Stannis, not the boy king, not even your uncle. But how can I take care of you when you hide from me like a coward?"

His stomach nearly pitched out of his body. "You're not here," he reminded himself calmly, "and I have gone from dreaming to having a nightmare."

"You've done nothing of the sort," Ramsay smiled. "I, however, have found _you_."

He pulled a shaking hand across his face. _Not real, this is not real, this is some ill magic or a terrible dream_ -

"Magic," Ramsay mused. "An annoying thing. But ask one of those blasted red priests for the right powder, and you'd be amazed at what that annoying thing can give you."

His fists clenched at his side, his feet planted even as the bastard strolled the length of Nagga's spine toward him. "An impressive place. I admit, I care not where you come from, or who you were. I have already made you mine, exactly as I want you. Do you remember who that is?"

"Reek," he whisered, the name slipping from his treacherous mouth. "Your Reek."

Ramsay's fury seemed nonexistent here; his rage was coiled tightly around him like a cloak, as though he knew it would do him no good here. His mirth, however, was frightening to behold, and it rolled off of him in black waves.

"You can't hurt me here," he said around a knot in his throat, like saying it would make it so. He knew very little of the red god's magic, but he knew a great deal about how badly one could hurt in a dream, and it was nothing compared to Ramsay's standards. He wasn't broken here, and he felt safe as he stood barefoot in the cold sand. Surely the Drowned God allowed him here for some reason, he couldn't be completely forsaken, surely there was safety within these bones -

Faith, and more faith. It fit him strangely.

"But you can't stay here forever," he was reminded coldly. "You'll wake up, and when you do, you'll know I'm coming for you. You'll _know_ -" and then the gap was closed, and Ramsay was there, his eyes burning through him, "I will burn Stannis's men and I will skin them for my banners and my men will take your sister and every woman in his host, and all that will be left is you, my Reek. And you will know I came for you, and you'll wait for me."

The mist of his breath ghosted across Theon's cheeks, his stubble _just there_ -

He had been a vain fool when Ramsay's men had swelled up and overtaken his own. In the North, high-born prisoners were preserved to be traded or ransomed handsomely. He thought Roose Bolton would have him exchanged to the highest bidder, even if that was a northman with a mind for revenge. Ramsay had played into that for three days. The worst was how he'd believed it at first, and thought Ramsay had made an exception for him, spared him, until the fifth day - then he knew pain. And despite it, there he stood again, their breath mingling in the cold, and his entire body was betraying him all over again, like he'd forgotten his fingers and his skin and his _name_ -

Ramsay's fingers curled in his furs, and the touch set him trembling. "Because I am coming for you," he promised softly. "Perhaps the Lord of Winterfell will fly banners made of this false king's own skin someday. But not before I take my Reek home with me."

A sharp, ripping blast of salty wind roared between them, the only thing Theon thought might separate them. "My name is Theon," he whispered desperately. " _Theon_. The last son born of the Kraken's loins, lord of the Iron Islands -"

And Ramsay was laughing softly, laughing at him, his breath warm on Theon's mouth and his cheek hot on Theon's skin.

"I don't care who you were," he chuckled. 'I made you as I wished. I will remake you as I desire. I will burn Stannis Baratheon and his host to the ground, and I _will_ have you again."

Theon wouldn't exactly say he despaired, but he couldn't think of another way to define it. "I am free of you," he whispered desperately.

"You will never be free of me," ghosted across his mouth. He leaned into the words, the heat, and then it was gone. The salty sea air went with it. And then he was alone, and it was worse.


End file.
